


coalesce

by thraume (ethia)



Series: Galathea [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: 2nd person POV, Early Days, F/M, PWP, Pre-Canon, Seduction, Smut, burn of attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 03:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13115115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/thraume
Summary: He has a reputation, of course. Would have to have one, looks and charms like his.Dazzling blue eyes, shimmering dark waters here in the gloom around the bar. A gaze to wade into.You can already feel him start to undress you, with nothing but the not so accidental stir of his thumb on the back of your hand. Have a good, clear guess at what it would be like, giving his hands free rein of your body. Claiming your skin with the roughness of his palms, laying you bare under the tips of his fingers.





	coalesce

Isn't a second place like the _Jones_ in all of San Francisco.

A former townhouse, two stories dense with people looking for fun. Not a uniform in sight, even with most of them in the service like you.

The fleet's unofficial send-off party in full swing, a half dozen ships just waiting in orbit to fan out into the unknown.

All edges soft with a blur of shadows, faces tinged with a warm gilded glow in the low haze of light.

The music a pulse that crawls up the walls, slinks between the press of moving bodies, a vibrant sheet of sound, alive and enticing.

Around you, the bar is all but deserted, with everyone who's still steady on their feet out on the dance floor, to burn off the edge of impending departure.

You're not here for dancing tonight.

There's no shortness of offers, only one that stands out. A pretty face in the crowd, easy smile, lidded gaze. Curls that would slide like silk through your fingers. A stranger, all harmless, no baggage for you to take along into space.

"He's not the company you want."

That voice is vaguely familiar to you; its owner grunts as he slides down on the stool next to yours, sets down his glass on the bar with a clink and a slosh.

"Oh?"

Unwilling to reward the rudeness of the intruder's uninvited advice with even a sliver of your attention, you refuse to avert your eyes from your possible conquest, the thrilling lure of the invitation in his gaze.

Let the newcomer stew for a while.

"Why take a boring trip when you can have an adventure?"

But that makes you look away, curious to see who's trying to pull off that prance and swagger with you.

He's pouring it on, cocksure and handsome, a devastating mix.

Gabriel Lorca, freshly promoted to ensign just now. About to embark on the _Galathea_ with you.

Not exactly the safest pick you could take. But then, you've always had a taste for excitement.

He's never shown that kind of interest in you before. Or maybe he has, and you just didn't notice, wouldn't let yourself see. Hard to ignore now, with his charms pooling so richly in the dark smoke and honey of his voice.

From his perch to your left, he clinks his glass to yours, looks up at you from under the heavy drag of his lids. Sweeps his appraising gaze all over your face. Stops at your mouth, lips pursed in thought. Catches your eyes, his smile all suave and liquid with lust.

"Lieutenant."

"Not here, I'm not."

"Katrina."

And isn't that bold, even with the constraints of rank temporarily lifted from you.

It's not like you've even officially met. You remember him from a lecture you gave, earlier this year, three months before his graduation.

Smart, strong opinions. The sharpness of his mind abrim with brilliant tactics. The clean-cut lines of his face nothing short of attractive.

Appealing to you on so many levels.

That gap in your ranks enough to keep you from taking a closer look.

But now your pips sit safely on your nightstand.

And send-off night means fair game for all.

Tonight, he's certainly worth your consideration.

"I recall your unusual take on the _Misaka_ dilemma. Swift and efficient. A real fresh approach. That was something."

"Just a sim. Nothing real." A small shrug, and the slovenly drift of the ice in his drink seems to draw his gaze, warrant a smile. “Unlike that stunt you pulled on the _Monarch_. In and out of the Neutral Zone undetected. Not a wrinkle on the Romulans' faces.” He raises his gaze from the depths of his glass, lifts his head to show you the admiration in his eyes. Lets his breath roll out in a quiet little sigh, a shiver of air that licks at your shoulder. An innocent whisper that burns you deeply. “ _Beautiful_.”

It's nothing to go all breathless about.

"Didn't do it alone." Your voice is a traitor, as is the fine blush of heat on your face.

"We never do. Still, I saw your handwriting all over it. Skillful. So much you can teach me." Another brief little smile, the jut of his chin showcasing the sculpted line of his jaw. "But you're not here to talk shop."

"What _am_ I here for, d'you think?"

"To drive me crazy with the way you're making me work so hard for the pleasure of your company."

He has a reputation, of course. Would have to have one, looks and charms like his.

Dazzling blue eyes, shimmering dark waters here in the gloom around the bar. A gaze to wade into.

You can already feel him start to undress you, with nothing but the not so accidental stir of his thumb on the back of your hand. Have a good, clear guess at what it would be like, giving his hands free rein of your body. Claiming your skin with the roughness of his palms, laying you bare under the tips of his fingers.

Best to nip that imagery in the bud. Before you grow any more excited for him.

“For so many reasons, this is a pretty bad idea.”

A grunt, and he's rising, stepping around you to rest his hands on the bar, frame you between the spread of his arms, a hover that stays just shy of being a touch. Trapping you under the force of his presence.

Oh, the torture of the barest distance he keeps. So utterly tantalizing. Much like the suggestive spill of his voice in your ear.

"Tell me you never thought about it. The things I could do to you. The things you could have me do."

And wouldn't that be a blatant lie.

It's the single most arousing thing you've ever felt, to sense him standing so very close, the cover of his body hot and hard behind you, and you could lean back, have him moan with the contact, have his breath slip over your neck and then deeper, all the way down under the cling of your dress. A lick of his heat pooling over the length of your spine, slick and luscious.

Nothing at all holding you back.

Except good sense of course.

"In less than twelve hours, you're going to be my subordinate. Chances are you will end up being assigned to me."

"We're not on board. Not yet." He steps away, takes the stool on your right this time. Places his hand over yours where it lies on your leg, rubs his fingers through the spread of yours, his eyes intent on your face, searching for permission.

And you make sure he finds it, lick your lips while he teases at the hem of your dress, push by delicious little push, until he slips under, drags himself over the flush of your skin. Whispers over the rush of his touch. "Nothing more than a roll in the hay. Just this once, never mentioned again. Of no consequence at all."

It's imperative that you hold yourself together, keep the upper hand, so you still his hand with yours, trap it halfway to the inside of your thigh, let him rub small circles there. A sluggish pace, a rhythm perhaps that his tongue would like to pick up.

Later, if you let him.

"Such great lengths, just for a quick fuck?"

He pushes for just a tiny bit more, a little bit higher, the press of his fingers sweetly insistent between yours.

"Not so quick if I get to have my way."

There's danger in his seduction, a depth lurking that draws you in when it should warn you off. A hint of meaning in the way his eyes linger on yours.

A possibility for complication.

It's probably a little late to start caring now. When you've already made up your mind. Sold on his determination to have you as his lover tonight.

You bend into the space of his mouth, wait for the ready curl of his lips, let your words drift across its delectable pull.

"Always someone to warm your bed, with a smile like that."

"So you're concerned about the state of my bed now?"

"Gotta know what I get myself into, don't I?"

It's not a kiss so much, just his mouth getting to know the dip and rise of your lips. Having a first impression of your taste on his tongue. Leaving a hint of his behind in return. You lick it into your mouth, suckle on it, spice and malt, and watch him whet his lips in pure instinctual reflex.

As helplessly lost to his want as you are.

"You happen to live anywhere close?"

As luck would have it, he does.

More fortunate still, the elevator at his high-rise moves at a crawl, a tiny space so packed with a sizzle of tension that you can hardly stand still with the crackle of it all over your skin.

A circumstance only aggravated by the sumptuous scent of him, a subtle waft that moves about him, deeply earthy and distinctly male.

As if by some prior agreement to take this all slow, he seems in no hurry to come closer to you, a lascivious smolder in his eyes, a low-burning fire that flares as he reaches out to the curve of your hip.

"I like that dress. Shows you off all subtle and tempting."

The fabric follows the drag of his fingers, flows on your skin as he plays with the hem of your skirt, no more than a tickle to arouse your attention.

He doesn't let you move in for a kiss, sidestepping you to get behind you again, breathing softly over the curve of your neck.

“Better this way. Helps me behave.”

If by behave he means the slow sway of his body into yours, not at all shy about his arousal.

He doesn't press, doesn't push; he's simply _there_ , so incredibly close, as though to give himself ample chance to drink you in slowly. There's a tenderness in the run of his hands on your hips that's completely unexpected; it makes you moan, soft little sounds that rush out with your breath. A whimper when he strokes the sides of your thighs, too light for you to even feel the warmth of his fingers, his seduction of you unbearably gentle, an exhilarating sweetness that leaves you aching.

The tension he spins out between him and you so delicate, so deeply alluring that you let yourself ride its heady pull, let it rise and fill you until you're hot and brimming with it, burning up with a need for him that almost scares you, because he hasn't even really touched you yet, or fully kissed you.

But he rests his mouth over that dip in your neck, quietly breathing you in, a seep of heat right into your skin that makes you clutch at his hands, makes you pull them together in front of you, rub at them until he draws you in, firmly against him, and you gasp as he finally starts to take possession of you.

"S'right," he croons, a thick slur of want like molasses in his voice, "Show me how much you want this."

Want _him_ , but he doesn't press for the admission, perhaps doesn't need it when clearly, you're already so far gone for him.

The lift spills you out into an empty hallway; for a moment, it seems impossible to let go of him, the sure mold of his body around you, but he steps away, tugs at your hand for you to follow, and there's that adventure he promised you earlier, right there in the playful crook of his smile.

Inside, he pushes straight into you, walks you up against the wall and pins you there from chest to hip, the agitated heave of his body a burn of friction all over you.

"Slow or fast, it's up to you."

The choice is yours, like it has been all night, and you've never been so powerfully aroused, having him succumb so fully to your desire. Ready to please you however you like.

"Fuck me, Gabriel."

His mouth twists with a rush of want; he lifts you up, a display of his strength, then grunts as you lock your legs around him, a display of yours.

Fast it is, just a bare minimum of your clothes being pushed out of the way, and you almost laugh with it, the eager clumsy tug and pull the two of you make of it. His shirt, your dress, they both go off in a flurry of motion. A brief scrabble over the fly of his pants. The eager hook of his fingers in your panties, his hungry growl at the dampness of them.

But then you're there, and now he won't be rushed, that first slide of him gentle and slow as he fits himself into you.

"Say it again." His voice is gruff with his need for it; not the request so much, that not quite order, but the sound of his name, a treat you haven't been generous with.

"Come on, Gabriel, fuck me." The sound of it is lovely on your tongue, as is his reaction to hearing you say it.

That involuntary stretch of his mouth, wide with pleasure. The utterly uncontrolled jerk of his body into yours. The way it makes him rub into you, a perfect little slipslide of heat.

"Don't move now. Just, ah, just for a moment."

The touch of his hands on your skin is careful, a steady slide that takes them up ever so slowly over your stomach, just barely high enough to push at the rise of your breasts still cupped in your bra. The slur of his mouth coming down the other way, suckling softly at as much of your naked flesh as he can find.

Tiny kisses, a gentle squeeze of his hands and he seems reverent, lost in his exploration of you.

And all the time his hips stay perfectly still in the cradle of yours, an effort that strings the strong cords of muscle in his shoulders taut under your fingers.

It's too much to bear, the way you're so wet and breathless for him, your need a steady, thrumming pulse he must feel rolling all over him.

"Gabriel." Hummed right into the flush of his cheek, the wanton drawl of his name is playing things dirty, but it does get him moving, a rocking little push, all the more glorious for being entirely out of his control.

Hungry for more, you rub your fingers over the back of his neck, so clearly suggestive that his hips can't help but pick up the pace, the pull of instinct and pleasure too strong to resist.

"That's it, Gabriel, fuck me, don't you hold back," and he's looking at you, a fierceness in his eyes that matches his pace, and then he's pulling your head down, brings your mouth to where he can reach it.

Grunting into the frenzy of your kiss, finally letting himself go fully, one hand wound tightly through your hair to keep your mouth fused to his, willing and open under the skillful slide of his tongue.

Eating up your panted whispers, _s'good, so fucking good like this_.

He's everywhere, inside and out, an overwhelming force that wraps itself tightly about you, each little touch, each motion adding to the fevered rush of your arousal, and you crash so fast, so hard that you can't stop clutching at him, pressing as close as you can possibly be.

“Oh, oh, _fuck_ ,” and he follows, buries his face into the side of your neck as he rides out his high, an endless ripple of his body into yours, drawing out the intensity of your own pleasure.

Despite the languor of his bliss setting in, he seems hesitant to set you down, break up the intimacy of the connection between you. After a while of just standing together like this, flushed and with that first edge taken off, he lifts his head to grin up at you, a little smug and plenty satisfied.

“Care for another drink before we go on?”

You laugh as he lets you slide down, grateful when he doesn't move away immediately, covering you with that solid warmth of his, one arm around you to keep you steady as he kisses you slowly, the press of his lips so sweet he's making you sigh with the dreaminess of his touch.

And who would have thought, but he has a streak of chivalry in him, or maybe it's just a small show of possessiveness when he insists you slide on his shirt.

“And what about you?”

Not that you mind the sight of his naked chest laid so gloriously bare for you.

"I've got something to keep the both of us warm." The sight of his grin is quite enough to do the trick for you, but you certainly don't turn down his offer of a very fine Scotch. “Present from a friend, for letting him take over my flat for as long as we're out there.”

It's a nice place he's got; an open space with a setback bedroom, white walls, high ceilings. Loft-like, the style more old fashioned than you would have expected.

Nothing much left to tell you anything about him. Everything packed up and stowed away for the duration of his journey.

A bachelor's den, an unshared space; clear, pragmatic, much like his way of tackling the problems you threw at him in the course of your tenure.

The only thing to draw your eye the photograph that takes up the entire height and width of the wall to your right. Black and white, an Arctic explorer stuck in an ice shelf, nineteenth century by the look of it.

You step closer for a view of the details, a group of Inuit in the foreground, women and men swathed in thick fur. Sleds packed with provisions, dogs sitting and lying about in their harness. In the far distance, tiny in front of their ship, the bold explorers trapped in the act of inspecting the damage to the wooden hull.

“The HMS _Discovery_ ,” Gabriel says, relieving you of your empty glass to set it down on a table with his. “Formerly a whaler by the name of _Bloodhound_. Steam engine, more than 1200 tons in the water. That picture was taken in late 1875, when they got stuck for almost a month.”

“Any personal reference? Or did you just like the look of it?”

“First officer is an ancestor of mine on my mother's side of the family. Lost a leg and three fingers to the trip. But never his taste for adventure. Or his thirst for the unknown. Runs in the family.”

The fondness in his smile tugs at you, brings forth a well of affection that surprises you. A desire to get to know him better. Much better than a night of letting off steam should ever warrant.

But you can't bring yourself to shush it away; there's always the possibility of being his friend. Keeping things strictly professional, the memories of this night no more than that.

There's a challenge in his gaze, a friendly tease, and you would have to be mad not to give it a chance.

"You don't believe me."

Friends without benefits.

But not for tonight.

Tonight, you get to flirt right back at him.

"I believe you're thirsty, all right."

He's behind you again, teasing at the swell of your buttocks under the tails of his shirt, slipping one hand around you to give the same lavish attention to the mound of your breast.

"So very soft in all the right places. Strong where it counts. So lovely, Katrina. Quite impossible to resist. Believe me, I've tried. Almost let you hook up with that guy."

"Mhm. What stopped you?"

"I knew I could do so much better by you." All confidence, not meant as a brag but a promise to you, and you squirm in the assertive grip of his hands, the possessive squeeze of his fingers on you. "You know it wasn't either fast or slow, but which one first, right?"

"So slow is on the menu next?"

"Oh, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"It's okay if you need a moment."

There's a roughness to his huff of laughter, an edge of surprise, like he can't believe you'd think him anything less than eager to continue with this.

"Not with you, I don't." Unlike earlier in that elevator, he presses close now, lets you feel him against your hip, already full and heavy again. Point proven, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck, makes a show of dragging his mouth slowly up to your ear. "I want to lick you."

And you want to come, with nothing but the sound of his voice in your ear, dirty and low and rumbling through you, feeding the flush of lust he's drawing up so effortlessly.

There's a fleeting regret when he moves away, then a burst of voracious desire as he lowers himself in front of you. Never averting his eyes from yours.

It makes you shiver, the sight of him kneeling, face turned up to you, the slowness of his smile, the anticipation in his eyes as he licks his lips, waiting for you to invite him closer.

Which you do with the stroke of your hands through his hair, the careful rake of your nails causing him to grunt and arch, then throw himself forward to lap at the dampness on the inside of your thighs, pushing his head into the light cup of your palms.

Of course he knows how to put that sensuous mouth of his to practical use, no surprise there. The eloquence of his tongue not limited to clever words, seductive tones; the flex and curl of it persuasive, unrelenting in its eagerness to coax you ever closer to that fiery edge, the undeniable height of the pressure he builds.

It's too good to let go, that fervor of his mouth, the passion he pours so richly over you, and you fight the oncoming rush of relief, hold yourself back until he hums, a growl of sound that shatters you in deep-reaching pulses, licking through you from the inside out.

You pool contentedly in his lap, too lazy to rise and hold yourself up. Aware of the smugness in his grin, the restless little movements of his hands on your back. Not a trace of satiation left to still his desire.

It's not far to his bed, but you take forever, mostly owed to his insistence to undress you, fighting to get past the impatience of your mouth as you take kiss after fevered kiss from him. A losing battle, when he's so hot and hard for you, twisting and rolling into the rub of your hand through the front of his pants.

In the end, he's glorious, naked and sprawled on his back for you, sculpted muscles that quiver under the teasing lightness of your touch.

The little groans he gives as deeply arousing as the tightly reined-in push of his hips, the not quite thrusts along the heat of your palm.

The shape and taste of him in your mouth is something you savor, thrilled by the utter stillness of him, the obvious urge to move held back until you coax him into following the leisurely pace of your tongue.

His lust entirely yours to direct.

His hands in your hair never more than the gentlest of strokes, a tender caress so at odds with the raw intimacy of pleasuring him with the wet heat of your mouth. It makes you hum and he groans with the sensation, helpless to fight the one little jerk of his hips that you know is almost his undoing.

"You're so hot. Fucking scorching, Katrina. I've been hard for you all night. Ever since I saw you at the bar. Couldn't stand the thought of you being with someone else tonight. God, I'm so close. I can't even, I can't-- Can't even really tell you how very fucking good you're making me feel. But I promised you slow. Let me do that for you."

You can't get enough of it. The look on his face, his obvious fight for control. The war between wanting to let go, and needing to hold on.

And all the time the tenderness of his hands in your hair.

"Katrina, Kat, come. Come here. Please, come here."

He's seconds away from spilling himself, just one slow suck of your mouth, and he's trembling with the knowledge of it, the promise of a quick relief.

But there's something he wants more than that, and you wouldn't dream of denying him the pleasure. Not when he's asking so sincerely for it.

It's not like this night will go on forever.

But there's time enough for a few minutes of light, tender kisses, stretched out by his side, the throb of his dick nestled between your thighs, a gentle rocking of his hips enough to tide him over for a while.

Until it's not, the easiness of his pace giving way to a more erratic rhythm, his arm going tight around your waist to draw you more firmly against him. His kiss growing hard, less teasing, more demanding.

“Finish me off, Kat. Ride me. I wanna see you move above me. God, I'm dying for it, you have no idea.”

You have every fucking idea in the world.

He's a feast underneath you, hard muscle, curbed strength, every ounce of his power fully under your control. The pace you set much too slow for him, but he hangs on, groaning, clutching at your hips, grunting with each shift of them, each roll that hints at a faster rhythm.

“Please, Kat, you're killing me, please, oh god, _oh_ \--”

You bend over him to swallow the deep, husky growl of his voice, the needy edge that makes you clench around him, hard and lasting. He bucks into the sensation, and his grip on your hips is bruising, and you let him move freely now, let him pick up the pace, faster and ever faster.

With your hands on either side of him, you hover over him, ghosting your lips over his mouth, tiny licks of his tongue drawing you closer until he manages to capture you, pull you down and into the angry furnace of his kiss.

One of his hands finds your breast, kneading and squeezing in time with his thrusts, a throb of pleasure that makes you clench even harder.

You're almost there, so very close, and you whimper into his mouth, needing so much for him to break that exquisite burn of tension for you.

“Gabriel,” and he _knows_ , rubs his thumb exactly where you need it, a heavy drag that's just so right, so very fucking perfect, and you're soaring, and falling, and coming, fat lazy waves of pleasure that just won't stop rolling over you.

You go still above him, let your weight sink onto him, so deliciously spent, and the sound he makes is painful, a sob of a breath, and then he's clutching you close, pulling you down as he strains up into your body, buck after buck after buck.

It's a high you don't ever want to come down from.

Not with morning inching ever closer.

You slip away from him after a while, but not too far. Still within reach of his searching fingers, their gentle sweep over your brow, then up through your hair. The scent of him washing over you, more pronounced now with his passion spent.

Another memory to close away where it won't affect your work on board.

"Stay for breakfast."

And why not indulge yourself fully, while you're at it.

"Not exactly the kind of offer I'd expect after a roll in the hay."

It's a good thing he's within reach of you, too, because apparently he likes to have you stroke your fingers lightly behind his ear, turning his head more fully into your touch.

"Not an offer I usually make." He looks up at you from where he's sprawled on his side, a picture of thoroughly male contention. That depth again, shimmering through the easiness of his smile. "Aren't you hungry?"

Problem is, you are. Far more than you should be.

Starving for another night like this.

The _Galathea_ won't see you have one.

Not with him, once he's in your charge.

So you shake your head no, not exactly a lie.

Just a refusal to become too involved.

"Too much? Then sleep with me, at the very least. An hour or two. Have a bit of rest. I think you'll need it come morning."

That boyish smile, all playful, is impossible to resist.

And so you settle yourself in the easy curl of his body, the glow of his warmth, the soft hush of his breath in your ear.

What harm could there possibly be in spending another hour in his arms?


End file.
